


guide me home

by walkthegale



Category: Holby City
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 02:06:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10065314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkthegale/pseuds/walkthegale
Summary: A day in the life, one year later.





	

It’s been exactly one year.

Bernie perches on the edge of her desk, nominally reading a chart, but in fact watching Serena as she frowns over some file or another, sitting across the office. It’s been a while since Serena returned to work, and a little over a month since she moved back up to full-time, and Bernie feels like AAU might finally be settling into its proper rhythm again, the ward shaping itself comfortably around them. She knows it runs better with the both of them in charge than it does for anyone else. The Dream Team.

Serena looks up in time to catch whatever amused expression that thought had put on Bernie’s face, and she smiles brightly enough that Bernie feels it as a warmth in her chest. Bernie grins back at her and then tries again to concentrate on the chart she's holding. A year. She wonders if Serena realises.

She thinks about asking. Or, instead, she thinks about closing the blinds, pushing Serena up against the filing cabinet and reminding her that way.

“You're blushing, Ms Wolfe.”

Bernie looks up again and meets Serena’s raised eyebrow.

“I hardly dare speculate what must be on that chart,” Serena continues, her grin becoming wicked.

Bernie will not be outdone. She leans back and lets her eyes trail over Serena appraisingly. “Come over here and find out?”

A knock on the door and Morven’s head poked around it saves their work day. Bernie’s needed in the trauma bay immediately. She dashes after Morven, dropping the chart on top of one of the scattered piles of paperwork on her desk that drive Serena up the wall, though even Serena has to admit that Bernie never actually seems to lose anything despite the apparent chaos.

***

Bernie eats a sandwich at her desk while ploughing her way through a stack of work that never seems to get any smaller. She leaves a chutney fingerprint on someone’s notes, and crumbs in her keyboard.

She and Serena pass at speed, Serena on the phone, and Bernie on her way to claim an iPad from Fletch containing the CT results she’s been waiting for. Their hands touch in the doorway of their office and Serena catches her fingers, holding on for just a split second before they part and carry on.

She’s left a coffee on Serena’s desk. It’s probably lukewarm by the time Serena sits down, but it’s better than nothing.

***

“Dinner? Tonight?” Bernie keeps her voice soft, and her head bent.

Serena doesn’t look at her, continues scrubbing her hands. A sideways glance through her fringe, and Bernie can see that she’s smiling. “Jason’s not back until Sunday.”

“My place?”

“Yes.”

It’s a practised routine, this conversation. They could have had it in their office at a normal volume, or in the car that morning while Serena drove them both here, or not at all because of course they’re having dinner together tonight. But they have it quietly, under their breaths, before surgery, or in the corridor, or out on the ward, while handing notes off to each other. _Dinner_. _Tonight_.

They work together and they save a woman’s leg, communicating in half-sentences and finishing each other’s thoughts, passing instruments and staunching bleeds. A well-oiled machine.

***

They’re both meant to finish at seven, but a red phone rings, and Bernie has her hands in a boy’s abdomen when she should have been clocking off. She finally makes her way back to their office almost two hours late, her blood-spattered scrubs hastily exchanged for jeans and shirt, and her hair sweaty and stuck to her forehead.

She’s mildly surprised to find a light on, Serena sitting at her desk with a small glass of Shiraz. Serena hands Bernie a glass of her own and she leans against the table, knowing that if she sits down properly, she might not have the energy to stand up again.

“I thought I’d find you at Albie’s,” she says, after a reviving gulp of wine.

“I didn’t feel like the noise,” Serena toys with the stem of her wine glass in a way that Bernie has never been able to resist watching, not since that very first shared drink. “Not today.”

Bernie drinks her wine and looks at Serena. Serena’s tired, and it shows in her posture, though never on her face. Serena at the end of a long shift always somehow looks fresher than Bernie feels after eight hours sleep.

“I have something for you,” Bernie remembers, and goes to grab the gift from a drawer. She hands Serena a bottle, hastily covered in tissue paper and tied with a silver ribbon. She grimaces slightly seeing her own wrapping skills again - surely it had looked tidier this morning?

Serena smiles, slow and full. “You didn't forget me, then, out there in Ukraine.”

“And you didn't forget me here.”

“And you had changed, and so had I.” Serena lets out a long breath. “How has it only been a year since you came back to me, Bernie? How has so much happened? How are we - how are we still here?”

They had both changed, in those two months apart, and they have both changed so much since. Serena will never be the same person she was before Elinor died, but Bernie isn't the same either, and that's ok. They move forward, together.

Bernie leans in and kisses her, gentle but firm. “Come on, let’s go home.”

***

It’s late enough by the time they get going that they stop en route and buy a takeaway pizza. They end up eating most of it in Serena’s car, parked outside the pizza place. Bernie finishes her last slice while Serena drives them back to Bernie’s flat, something faintly soothing playing on the radio.

Bernie’s flat is perhaps a frivolity, at this point. Bernie doesn’t think she’s been back here for at least three days, and when they get there they have to keep their coats on for a bit, after Bernie turns the heating back on.

Serena’s house is homier than the flat, more lived-in, and at least half of Bernie’s stuff is there now, but Bernie will never forget the feeling of shutting the door to this place for the first time, everything she owned still packed up in boxes around her, and knowing that it was hers. Not hers-and-Marcus’s, not the army’s, not a hotel or an on-call room, but hers.

They watch something on the telly while the flat warms up around them, neither really concentrating, Serena’s head on Bernie’s shoulder and their fingers laced together.

Eventually, Bernie drags herself to her feet and goes to hang up their recently shed coats. When she turns around, Serena’s there.

Serena puts her hands on Bernie’s shoulders, backing her into the wall and, as Bernie’s eyes widen, kisses her deeply, with the singular purpose that Serena brings to everything she does.

Bernie is never surprised for more than a moment, so she settles in almost instantly, leaning back and enjoying the warm weight of Serena pressing against her, Serena’s kiss leaving her breathless. Serena breaks away long enough to ask, “This ok?” and Bernie can only nod before Serena catches her mouth again, nipping at Bernie’s bottom lip, one hand tangling in the hair at the nape of her neck, and the other already deftly unbuttoning Bernie’s shirt.

She wonders, briefly, where Serena found this sudden burst of energy, as Serena plants fast, burning kisses along her collarbone, but the thought is eclipsed when Serena grabs her wrists, pinning her arms back against the wall behind her. Bernie’s breath hitches, and Serena’s mouth moves down into the dip between her breasts, her tongue flickering against Bernie’s skin.

Serena’s kisses find their way back up her chest, over the ridge of her scar, along her neck and jawline. Bernie shifts her arms against Serena’s grip, but Serena holds her tight, kissing her fiercely, her mouth the centre point of Bernie’s world, until Bernie bucks her hips into Serena’s, groaning desire and frustration against Serena’s lips.

“In a hurry, Berenice?” Serena releases Bernie’s mouth and arms to smirk up at her, eyes dark and heavy, nimble fingers at the fastening of Bernie’s jeans. Bernie lets out a huff of laughter that turns into a moan when Serena’s hand slips into her underwear, finding her soaking wet.

Bernie shivers as Serena’s fingers slide against her, hampered slightly by clothing but still dextrous. Her hips move of their own accord and she presses her face into Serena’s shoulder. There’s time for teasing, time for pacing themselves, but not tonight. Tonight Bernie just wants to come, and Serena knows it. She runs her fingers through Bernie’s heat, a familiar, delicious dance. Slow, sure strokes that build in speed and strength as Bernie whimpers and clings to her, fighting to keep her knees from buckling.

Bernie’s orgasm finds her suddenly, crashing through her body, Serena’s teeth at her neck, and fingertips on her clit. She shouts, Serena’s name, perhaps, blurred into a wordless cry, and is left shaking and gasping for air.

“I'm going to have to sit down,” she tells Serena as soon as she can form the thought. She would have slid down the wall to the floor, but Serena kisses her and leads her to the sofa, where she collapses bonelessly, pulling Serena down beside her. Serena lands half in her lap, a situation neither of them is in a hurry to amend, and walks her fingers idly over Bernie’s stomach while Bernie catches her breath.

“You're stunning,” Serena says, and Bernie kisses her, long and languid, and when she pulls back, Serena grumbles in protest, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright.

Bernie smirks now, and catches Serena’s eye, holding her gaze as she slides Serena’s blouse off her shoulders. The slip underneath follows suit, all the while with her eyes locked onto Serena’s, and then the trousers, tapping Serena’s hips to get her to lift them when required. Serena in her underwear is a sight to behold, and Bernie does, raking her eyes up and down Serena’s body. Serena used to be shy under Bernie’s study, but now she's coy and perhaps a little impatient. They're neither of them good at waiting, it has long ago become clear.

Bernie doesn't touch Serena yet, despite her every instinct screaming otherwise. She reaches carefully around her, unhooking Serena’s bra and pulling it free. Pants take a little more work, and she can feel goosebumps forming on Serena’s skin as Bernie’s fingers brush down her legs.

Once Serena is naked, sitting on Bernie’s sofa, watching her with eyes glazed and pleading, Bernie’s fragile control snaps. She kneels on the floor in front of her, and Serena leans down to kiss her, hard. Bernie runs her hands across Serena’s back, down her sides, cups her breasts and traces her thumbs over her nipples. She sprinkles open-mouthed kisses over Serena’s stomach and thighs, parting her legs gently and working her way inwards.

She pauses at the apex, breathing in Serena’s scent, placing one light kiss…

Serena lets out a noise very like a whine. “Please, B-Bernie, please, oh, please…”

Bernie relents, burying her face in Serena’s wet curls, drawing her tongue down the length of her, then focusing her attentions. Serena, now that she's started talking, doesn't stop, a stream of progressively more colourful language pouring from her as Bernie works her lips and tongue over Serena’s clit, playing and tasting, licking and sucking.

When Serena starts writhing beneath her, her swearing now limited to the word “fuck” and a low, desperate moan, Bernie slides two fingers inside her, and then three, and keeps her mouth doing exactly what it was. Serena goes quiet when she comes, her eyes closed and her head tipped back, a violent shudder running through her body that Bernie feels almost as though it was her own. She stops gradually and pulls back, resting her head on Serena’s leg.

After a moment, Serena gestures for Bernie to come closer and Bernie, shirt and jeans still unbuttoned and her hair in wild disarray, pulls herself up onto the sofa and wraps Serena in her arms.

“All right?” Serena kisses Bernie’s cheek.

“Tip top, love,” Bernie sighs, her voice muzzy with satiation and exhaustion, and Serena laughs, delighted.

***

When Serena goes to shower, Bernie yawns hugely and struggles not to fall asleep. Whatever other merits Serena’s house might have, Bernie’s sofa is more comfortable, which is proving something of a problem tonight. She jumps in the shower herself as soon as Serena finishes, the hot water a blessing on tired skin, and by the time she comes out, clad in a fluffy towel and a cloud of steam, Serena has already dried her hair and is wearing pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt that’s gone slightly see-through with age.

Serena doesn’t always sleep easily, these days, but she’s tired enough tonight that she drifts off with Bernie’s arm draped over her waist. When she wakes, some time in the small, cold hours, from a nightmare she can’t quite remember that leaves her sobbing, Bernie sits up beside her with an arm around her shoulders until she feels like she can breathe again.

This grief is a path that Serena has to walk alone, that she’ll always be walking, though it shifts and changes along its length. Bernie can’t take it from her, can’t fix it, so instead she’ll be here, quietly, to help where she can.

***

In the morning, Bernie drives them to work in Serena’s car, because her own is still parked in the driveway of Serena’s house. She takes Serena’s hand in the car park and, while they queue for coffee, teases her about the new crop of F1s due to arrive on the ward.

It has been a year and a day.


End file.
